Men in Shorts

by Lori Perkins

  She gazed into his eyes. Those green eyes had captured her from the first moment they’d met.

  “You’re one special delivery I don’t plan on ever returning,” she said before she pulled him towards her and captured his lips for a scorching hot kiss.

  Until Next Week

  by Lisa Lane

  I sit at my desk, a computer blank page staring back, knowing that my distraction holds the muses at bay – nothing more. I turn to peek out the window, the mini-blinds angled in such a way that I might see out but no one outside can see in. I know my impatience is pointless, only putting the day on hold when I could be taking care of business, and yet I can’t help myself.

  Today is Saturday, and although in most regards Saturdays are like any other day of the week: beginning with a fresh cup of coffee on my desk and an eight-hour dedication to my work, and then ending in my lonely bed, drifting off to the narration of a good book, I allow myself this one weekly guilty pleasure. I find myself at an absolute loss for productivity today, however. My anticipation is getting the best of me. It has been a productive week, however, so I let it slide.

  Just for today.

  Rob is away again, off doing only God knows what, only God knows where. He says he’ll call, but he always seems to forget, instead offering up the same lame excuses over and over when he finally does find his way home. I find myself feeling resentful and lonely. I’ve taken immaculate care of myself over the years, holding onto the same slim figure I had when we first married. He, on the other hand, has let himself go, uninspired by my attempts at trimming his diet and sending him to the gym, using his age as an excuse for his indifference and inaction. I know he still cares, and yet he has grown unwilling to put forth the same effort as I have. Perhaps he is just tired, I tell myself … and then I realize that I’m tired, too.

  I hear the familiar slam of the work truck, and I peek out once again. My heart flutters. He’s here.

  I watch him as he eases a lawnmower down a makeshift ramp, carefully moving it from the back of the truck’s bed to the hard driveway. He wears cut-off denim shorts, the fringe hanging in perfect disarray against his dark, muscular thighs. He wears a ratty T-shirt smudged with grass stains and dirt, but still I can see every necessary detail. He has a tight ass and firm arms, not from hours with a personal trainer or a gym membership, but from genuine, hard work. His hair is long and sleek, pulled back into a ponytail that stretches down the length of his back. The sun hits it in just a way so it glistens in the light.

  I remind myself to breathe.

  He starts the mower and rolls it to the lawn, beginning at one side and walking it in long, flexing strides. My eyes follow him, back and forth, my focus shifting every minute or so up and down his beautiful body. He has no idea he is being watched, and yet he moves with confidence and determination, every step emanating the pride he takes in his work. He spins the mower around as he hits the edge, gracefully bringing it around, moving ever closer to me, one perfect row at a time.

  I spread my legs just slightly and slip a hand into my pants, finding my clit, already swollen and ready for my touch. I slowly massage myself, moving in slow, circular strokes, as I watch him continue back and forth across the lawn. I feel myself, hot and wet, the tension inside me growing as I build and work my arousal. I imagine that it is his fingers fondling me, rough and callused, yet tender and gentle, his dark hand a stark contrast against my pale skin.

  “I’ve been fantasizing about you all week,” he says, his accent thick and exotic, making each word even more tantalizing than the last. I have never heard his voice – we have never spoken to one another, not once – and yet I am certain that I have matched the pitch an intonation of each word just right.

  “I’ve been fantasizing about to you, too,” I reply.

  I think about the fact that he has been coming here, contracted out by a larger company, for a few months now, and I have yet to summon up the nerve to introduce myself. I’m not sure what it is that I’m afraid of. Rejection, perhaps? Losing my honor? No, it’s more than that, although I am at a loss as to what exactly it might be that continues to hold me back. Perhaps I’m afraid of damaging the fantasy…

  I imagine what he looks like beneath those shorts, allowing my imagination to fill in the blanks. He is thick and solid, shamelessly erect as he sizes up my thin, eager frame.

  “You are beautiful,” he says, moving closer and running his fingers through my hair.

  “So are you,” I tell him, taking his hot, bulky mass into my hand, and stroking him in my mind’s eye.

  Our lips move together, and his tongue reaches to caress the inside of my mouth. I meet his tongue with my own, tasting his sweet breath on mine. His lips are full, his shaved face soft as we press our faces tenderly against one another. He pulls away, and then gently takes me into his arms, draping me across the bed. I pull him on top of me, spreading my legs wide and opening myself up to him, ready to take him in.

  I move my fingers back, slowly penetrating two of them into me. They slide in easily, wet and firm, and I bear down hard as I search for the sweet, spongy spot hiding deep inside. I find it, waiting for me, and I begin to rub, slowly at first, and then with increasing intensity as my excitement builds. I imagine him thrusting himself into me, his dark eyes staring into mine, rich and expressive. His lips go tight with pleasure as I squeeze myself around him, taking him in completely, feeling and enjoying his subtle contours from within.

  He stops mowing for a moment, just long enough to remove his T-shirt and use it to wipe at his sweaty face. My jaw drops, my mouth agape; he has never taken off his shirt before. His chest is every bit as muscular and as I had imagined, his abs flat and fit. He wraps his shirt over the back of his sweaty neck, and then he neatly grasps the handle of the mower and continues his work. His dark body glistens in the sun, long trails of sweat trickling down his sides.

  I imagine his smooth, muscular chest brushing against my supple breasts, his washboard stomach going firmly against mine as his body goes tight with pleasure. His sweat mixes with mine as I wrap my arms around him and hold him against me. His heart beats against my own, quick and energized, throbbing against the other with shared excitement. His hands explore the rest of my body, and I let out a light cry as my entire body begins to tingle and shiver. My muscles go tight, and I squeeze harder around my busy fingers as I imagine him coming inside me. He plunges himself into me even harder, and I drive myself against him, meeting his every move with equal intensity. We both cry out, our movements gratifying and fulfilling, the desire swelling between us, and then he stops deep inside me, pulsating and twitching as he finishes with a pleasured moan.

  Suddenly he stops the mower, glancing toward my window. I freeze. Does he see me? I feel my body go flush, as if hot water was rushing through me, and I go shaky and weak. I pull my hand out of my pants, warm and sticky from my excitement, as he turns away and begins to cart the mower back toward the truck.

  I stare out, uncertain and self-conscious, as he trades the lawnmower for a weed whacker. He looks around, seeming to contemplate something, and then wipes away another layer of sweat with the bulk of his shirt. He starts up the smaller, lighter piece of equipment, and begins to sculpt the edges of the lawn with precision and care.

  Although he seems preoccupied with his work, I cannot help but obsess over the possibility that somehow he knew I was watching. It is definitely lighter outside than it is in my dim study, but I remind myself that my computer screen is still turned on.

  Might it have provided just enough light for him to see, at just the right angle, all that I had been doing in here?

  Unable to let it go, I decide I need to find an excuse to go out there. I need to see for myself. I go to the bathroom and wash up, taking a moment to look myself over in the mirror and put on a quick coat of lipstick. Satisfied with my appearance, I go to the kitchen and pour two tall glasses of iced tea.

  Taking a deep breath and finding my courage, I make my way t
o the front door.

  He doesn’t notice me at first, the noise of his weed whacker muffling the sound of the door opening and shutting behind me, and he looks startled as I yell over the machine to get his attention.

  “I thought you might be thirsty.”

  He kills the motor. “Huh?”

  “I thought you might be thirsty,” I repeat, lowering my voice, offering him a glass before glancing at my study window.

  I breathe a heavy sigh of relief. Only a reflection, and nothing more.

  He accepts the glass graciously. “Thank you,” he says, his accent thicker than I had expected.

  We both sip at our drinks.

  “I’m Erin,” I say.

  He nods with a smile.

  “I couldn’t help but notice you aren’t wearing a ring,” I say, hoping that I’m not being too forward. I become aware of mine, and quickly tuck my hands behind my back. What am I doing?

  His smile goes sheepish, and suddenly I feel my cheeks blush.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” I ask, his silence killing me.

  His eyes wander for a moment, and then he looks straight at me as he answers timidly: “No speak English. Hablas español?”

  I shake my head, disappointed. “No.”

  Feeling embarrassed and somewhat defeated, I quickly make my retreat back to the house. I hear him start up the motor again, but I do not turn back to look. I close the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment as I contemplate what just transpired.

  Despite my best efforts to push him from my thoughts, my mind drifts back to the beautiful man working in my front yard: his muscular arms, his perfect abs, the contour of his strong, dark legs beneath those cut-off shorts. I feel myself going swollen and hot once more.

  “I need a cold shower,” I mutter, charging for the bathroom, shedding my wet, sweaty clothes as I go.

  I turn on the water, and then suddenly I freeze as I hear a knock at the front door. Scrambling for a towel, I rush out, my heart racing.

  I open the door, and he stands on the porch, holding an empty glass. He offers me the glass, and his hand suddenly trembles as he eyes me, half-naked, staring back at him.

  “Thank you,” he says, his voice no more than a whisper. I can tell that I am turning him on.

  I accept the glass, and then suddenly, despite myself, I allow the towel to drop to the floor. I consider all of the neighbors possibly glancing over, and yet I do not rush to cover myself back up. I feel beautiful and desirable, feelings that have eluded me for far too long, as he stares at my body, his eyes filling with passion and desire.

  “Please come in,” I tell him.

  Despite our language barrier, he understands my request, and he steps through the threshold, closing the door behind him. Both nervous and excited, I lead him back with me to the shower. The room is hot and steamy. He moves to kiss me, and I allow him to take me into his arms. I tear at his clothes, unable to help myself.

  We enter the shower together. The water is hot and relaxing, much like his touch as he washes me and explores me, our bodies going slick with suds. He kisses my neck, my back to him, his long, wet hair brushing over me as he moves in close. He goes erect against me, and I close my eyes as he comes up between my legs. I bend over, offering myself to him, and he eases himself inside, his hands gently taking me by the hips. He moves in long, tender thrusts, and I grip the side of the tub as I grind up against him.

  Hot and swollen around him, feel myself build, moving to my clit, craving climax. I let out a light whimper, my legs shaking and threatening to give. I lean up against the side of the tub to keep from going down, reveling in the moment. His excitement builds with mine, and I rub myself heavy and hard, allowing him to take me to delicious bliss as his movements go hard and quick into me. He groans, taking me deep, and I cry out, holding him tight against me. He stays with me as I lower to my knees, the water beating down on us, our heart pounding and our breath heavy.

  We rinse one another off, feeling satisfied and serene, silent and content. I turn off the water and offer him a towel, in awe over his body as he finds his clothes. I see him to the door, wishing he could stay.

  I watch him once again from my window, contemplating the day. The weed whacker hums in the front yard, and he seems to take even more care in his work as he finished up the edging of the lawn. I return to my computer, an idea suddenly hitting me.

  The weed whacker goes silent, and I hurry to complete my task. I search online for a translation site, my fingers shaking as I type.

  I hear the truck door slam shut, the engine starting up, and I jump to my feet and dart to the front door. I race out, meeting him at the driveway just as he is pulling out. “Wait!” I yell.

  He stops the truck, turning to me, his face confused.

  “Hasta la próximas semana,” I say, doing my best to mask my American accent.

  He smiles, his eyes lighting up. “Hasta la próximas semana,” he replies, and then pulls his truck off the driveway and disappears down the long, lonely street.

  I take a satisfied breath. “Until next week,” I whisper, and I can’t help but allow an eager smile to creep across my face, knowing that he be back soon enough.

  Sweet Savage

  by Lexi Ryan

  Roxanna Montane had officially found heaven on earth in the view from her temporary office window. With one hand, she held her cell phone; with the other, she pressed her fingertips against the glass, as if she could touch the men on the field below.

  “You’re telling me that at this very moment you have a prime time view of Tyson Friday’s ass?” her friend Kerri asked.

  Roxanna’s eyes found number thirty-four without a problem. “Right now, some redheaded trainer is practically lying on him, stretching his hamstring, I think.”

  “Lucky bitch,” Kerri mumbled.

  “It’s a guy.”

  “Either way.”

  Roxanna laughed and fingered the long vertical blinds she had used daily during her first week here. She should really use them again. In these long slats of white plastic lay her only hope of getting any real work done.

  Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to close them since the St. Louis Savages football players arrived at their training camp two days ago.

  “Tell me what you see now,” Kerri demanded.

  “You’ll be able to see for yourself in a few hours.”

  Kerri groaned. “I feel like a kid on the night before Christmas.”

  Roxanna knew what she meant. She herself felt like a junk food junkie in Wonka World. Except instead of junk food, she had a weakness for delectable male ass. And there it was, an all-you-can-lust-over buffet of prime, grade-A ass, stretching before her on the practice field.

  “Well, if you’re a good girl, and don’t complain too much,” she told Kerri, “I’ll let you eat in the cafeteria with the team.” Not that Roxanna ever ate there. When Tyson Friday was within her line of sight, she tended to display her jaw-dropping grace by walking into walls.

  She preferred to avoid that kind of embarrassment.

  “In that case,” Kerri said, “I’d better go. I don’t want to ruin my chances.”

  Roxanna laughed. “See you soon.”

  “See you soon, Roxy,” Kerri said before disconnecting.

  No one but Kerri called Roxanna “Roxy.” But she liked it. She wanted to be the woman she thought of when she’d heard that name.

  Roxanna had run into Tyson Friday in the parking lot this morning. Since then, “Roxy” had been begging to come out and play. She’d been itching with sexy words, forbidden images. They came to her so clearly, and this one was especially hot.

  She wanted to write it down, wanted to get lost in a fantasy world of Tyson, his red Mustang, and the kind of moves they don’t teach at training camp. She pulled open her desk drawer to grab her notebook.

  It wasn’t there.

  Her eyes widened. No, she couldn’t have lost it. It was too private, too…mortify
ing to misplace something like that. She shuffled through the files, desperate for the small, spiral-bound black notebook to suddenly appear.

  She’d started the diary as a defense mechanism. Seeing Tyson Friday, three-time Pro Bowl running back and Most Beautiful Man on the Planet, run around right outside her office in those tight little football pants – it was more than any healthy woman could handle. The diary, she’d reasoned, would give her a release, an outlet for all that pent-up sexual energy.

  “Hey, sweetheart, how are you doing this morning?”

  With the speed of a last second snap, Roxanna’s head popped up at the sound of her father’s voice. She slid the drawer closed, ceasing her frantic search. “Hi, Daddy,” she said.

  “How’s my girl doing this morning?” he asked, taking a moment to observe his players on the field below.

  “Just fine.”

  He turned, eyed her cautiously. “You always feel a bit out-of-place this time of year, don’t you?”

  She shook her head. Yes, when she was an awkward teenager of fifteen, she’d felt terribly out-of-place following her father to summer training camp. But at twenty-six, her discomfort came from something else altogether.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him.

  “That’s my Anna Banana,” he said. “Always with a positive attitude.”

  She flashed her very best dutiful daughter smile before he left her office.

  Anna Banana.

  The only remotely sexy thing Fiana Truman had given her daughter was the name Roxanna. Frankly, Roxanna would have rather had Fiana’s showgirl legs, or her make-men-gape breasts. She would have even taken her lyrical laugh or her come-hither smile. But she hadn’t gotten any of those things from her mother. The only thing the ex-Cowboys cheerleader had given Roxanna before dumping her for a more exotic, baby-free life was a name with some potential toward sexy. Potential her father chipped at by finding the most innocuous, schoolgirl nickname possible. Anna.

  She knew it was no mistake that in her sloppily scribbled fantasies, her dream man had called her Roxy and not Anna. Because Anna was Coach Montane’s daughter, the prim, proper, daddy-pleasing do-gooder. Had there been a category for it at her high school, Anna would have been voted Most Likely to Die a Virgin. Anna would never have a professional football player – or any man, for that matter –make a move on her in a public elevator.